My Best Bad Thing
by kamazoth
Summary: Sometimes...The things that we believe to be a horrible, sadistic joke from God turn out to be for the best. Sent to school for the first time in his life, Christophé, "The Mole," finds odd comfort in the existence of a sort of like minded student. SLASHY


Disclaimer: The title comes from a book I once read, _The Best Bad Thing_ by Yoshiko Uchida, whereas the 'My' part is influenced by Scrubs' episode titles. I do not own anything other than silly plots and a desire to see Christophé and the emo-esque/red Goth getting it on. Kudos to Trey, Matt, and the South Park team. Beta read by my one and only love, Naokkun~

A/N: Christophé has a sailor's mouth, please be forewarned. ^^

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At some point in time, for whatever reason, Christophé's sorry excuse for a mother had decided to push her son into the Park County Public School System, a decision that drastically cut the French boy's precious daylight hours, but one that would, at least, allow him an alibi for not being in his room.

Ever since the brunette had memory, he'd only ever had this awful mother, a woman with little to live for and only hatred inside her shriveled, black hole of a heart.

His father had left before his child's second trimester ended; Abortions only worked during the first one, so his mother had tried everything to get rid of the fetus in her womb. She obviously failed and it would be the child's grandfather, a dick of a man that insisted on privately schooling the forsaken soul of this bastard boy.

Come to think of it, the reason why he was now waiting for the damn Twinkie bus wasn't as out of reach as he'd initially suspected. Christophé's grandfather, a clergy man somewhere back in France, had been funding the home schooled efforts, not at all trusting of the American education system, but he had passed on sometime last week, and without his patriarchal authority in place, his mother was free to dump her son into the hell that was South Park Elementary. A fate worse than death.

No sooner had he stepped on the school bus did he feel the impending doom that awaited him once they got to their destination. The bus rushed off; its children were used to bouncing around as the lunatic driver pushed the limits of the vehicle, but this was a novelty for Christophé and if not for the years of hit man experience, he would've fallen on his face like so many other new kids did.

The faces he saw here were vaguely familiar in the Colorado sunrise, but here and there he could make out what had once been _La Resistance_, long ago. But that had been a folly, a smudge on Christophé's clean record that, however small or out of his hands, would persistently taunt the brunette.

He took an empty seat near the back of the Twinkie and set his messenger bag beside him to dissuade anyone from attempting to share the seat. From a few seats back, he could hear the muffled music of someone's mp3 player, up in the front there existed the loud gasps and giggles of some of the girls, and the occasional retort to a boys', for lack of a better word, debate, and...From somewhere on the bus, the soft aroma of clove cigarettes wafted delicately through the air.

Christophé was grateful that his nose was sensitive enough to pick out random scents like that, but in a situation such as this, it really had no purpose…Still…At least he now knew that he wasn't the only eight-year-old walking around with tar lungs and assured cancer in the future. Not that it was much of a comfort, but more of a bit of data stored away in his brain files on life. Ah, life…. Christophé leaned against the bus' side, his dark brown eyes watching as a new layer of snow began falling from above. How insignificant life was, he thought to himself, how frail and easily it is taken for granted, or just how easily it is taken all together.

Christophé wasn't a philosopher, nor did he think much about the world around him, but there were times, like this one, where he took a moment to stop and think about his actions and how he impacted the world. He knew he was a well known criminal in the underground, _the _man to get the job done, but other than that, he was nothing more than another elementary school kid; the son of an unknown father. He was butan insomniac plagued child, one who believed that a healthy coating of dirt would always be best, but a child all the same.

He turned towards the others in the bus, his eyes never locking onto anyone, but simply going over them in a clean, smooth flow. He hated kids his own age.

The children of South Park Elementary were all ignorant of what was out in the real world. Blissfully so. Christophé dreaded for the future.

Eventually, the roaring Twinkie came to a squealing stop, narrowly avoiding a few other buses, and opened it's doors so the students on board could prance out and go about their day. How lovely, Christophé spat on the clean, fresh fallen show as soon as he was free of the large metal deathtrap. He then made his way towards the school, already sure that it would be a pit of hellish brimstone and gossip, if the bus ride was any indication, but if he could survive the infiltration of an enemy base, then school shouldn't be so hazardous. Ah, but how wrong he was.

His thoughts on school were something akin to Pink Floyd's _The Wall_, complete with tyrannical, abusive teachers and robot-like students. From the moment he stepped into Garrison's classroom he realized that his speculation was about half right.

He advanced towards the teacher's desk, a piece of paper notifying his addition to the classroom from the principal in his hand. This bizarre looking teacher took the note, skimmed over it and tossed it in the garbage "Well," The balding woman laced her fingers and rested her hands upon the desktop, her fine lipstick lips then formed a slight frown at the lanky new kid. "Stop idling by my desk and sit." She made a shooing movement with her hand, not caring to introduce him to the class, nor assist him in finding a seat. Christophé simply chose one himself and claimed it as his.

The rest of the school day until recess was dedicated to Garrison's ongoing rant about men, work, life as a lesbian and a very lengthy anecdote on some daytime drama which held very little interest for Christophé, although at one point, Mrs. Garrison attempted to demonstrate The Pythagorean Theorem, but, just as Christophé did, he saw the uselessness of such an application in a fourth grade class, so he moved on to criticizing them for their supposed stupidity, only to be interrupted by a shrill bell announcing their midmorning break and a stampede of children as they fought to exit the building and get their full playtime.

Christophé walked out after the rest, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes straight ahead. He had no interest in joining the rest of his class, but instead he explored the building around him, careful not to get caught.

As he passed through the corridors he caught a familiar scent, one of coffee and clove cigarettes, and he paused, thought about his next actions for a brief moment, and pushed open the double doors to the loading area behind the school.

As clear, fresh air wafted against Christophé's face, his senses were assaulted by the smell of smoke and coffee, accompanied by the blasting of Skinny Puppy's latest album, a fact known to Christophé only because a few of the people he dealt with would constantly play this excuse for music crap.

Out in the daylight, Christophé took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and as soon as they did he was greeted by the sight of a small, darkly clad individual. A Goth, if Christophé wasn't mistaken.

"'Ello," His English remained heavily peppered with a French accent, but Christophé refused to adopt an American one, why…What would his mother do in such a circumstance?! This was better left unexplored.

As Christophé took in this youth, he ran a hand through his usually ruffled brown hair. He was unsure what to expect from this boy, he didn't seem like he could be much of a threat; the boy here had quite a lanky body. His hair fell forward in a black-tipped fringe, covering his left eye, his dark red roots must have grown out sometime in the past few months…Or perhaps the dye had _only_ been applied to the tips… Christophé didn't know.

The other looked up, dark green eyes locking onto Christophé's own without a hint of hesitation. "What are you doing here?" It was more of a territorial remark than anything else, and Christophé found some form of perverse amusement in it.

"I 'ave come to escape ze rest of my class." He explained patiently, as one did to a frightened child as they checked the closet and the dark space under the bed. "Zey are….'Ow you say…" As he spoke, his companion raised a lit cigarette to his lips, took a drag, and ventured a guess. "Conformists?"

The participation caused a smirk upon Christophé's lips, and settled himself against the wall, next to this boy. "Oui." It was probably the better option to agree with him, especially if he wanted peace within his newfound haven. "Zat cigarette," He wondered, "'Ave you others?"

Without a word, the fringed Goth boy stood up, patted the pockets of his skinny, black pants, and produced a packet. "Take one, they aren't mine." He tossed the tiny box at the brunette and sat down. Almost immediately, he turned to his stereo and pressed the repeat button for the song they'd been listening to.

Christophé, not caring much for the music, opened up the cigarette box, and up came the same scent of clove he'd perceived on the bus that morning. He smirked.

"'Ave you a light?" He pulled out a thin cylinder of the single most beloved item of his life and brought it to his lips. The Goth walked over, his creeper shoes giving him a few inches of height, but Christophé still had an inch or so to spare. He leaned in and touched his own cigarette to Christophé's, who, in turn, proceeded to light it as if it were a flame that was given instead.

Moments of silence passed. Moments in which the Goth boy sat himself down again, replayed the song a few more times, and took an occasional sip of coffee from a thermos sitting beside him. At some point, various minutes after Christophé discovered this area, some other kids came out. The lone Goth boy's friends, Christophé thought.

The French boy's presence wasn't a nuisance, or rather; Christophé had somehow assimilated in those few quiet moments and became another silent, dark, smoking kid that had chosen to distance himself from the rest of the school's population.

Eventually the school bell rang, signaling the end of recess, but no one by the loading area moved. The day progressed and the small group soon became better acquainted.

That day, after school, Christophé boarded the hateful, speeding Twinkie, followed the scent of his newest acquaintance and sat himself next to him. Next to the wonderful aroma of coffee and cigarettes, and next to the fringe Goth boy. "School is such a pit of conformist Britney and Justin wannabes." He flipped his fringe out of his face and turned to Christophé. "You coming over today, or what?"

Christophé simply nodded, allowing himself the illusion of friendship.


End file.
